


the first, the last, the beginnings of the mighty

by nolandbeyond



Series: project a.m.i.a. [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nolandbeyond/pseuds/nolandbeyond
Summary: you ache and cry and scream, you curse the light but cannot curse the traveler
Series: project a.m.i.a. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590106
Kudos: 15





	the first, the last, the beginnings of the mighty

**Author's Note:**

> whats poppin gamers, im a long time reader and first time poster. this is a bit of a prologue into a longer story im planning of my version of shaxx and his origins as a guardian.
> 
> if you'd like to learn a little more about my interpretation of shaxx, feel free to look around my blog on tumblr, @lordshaxx!
> 
> anyways bungie can pry super soldier shaxx out of my cold dead hands.

Everything hurts.

There is metal grafted to his bones and nanites crawling on his skin, his blood boils beneath and his eyes burn underneath the artificial light.

He cries yet tears cannot fall and his voice goes unheard; he claws at his skin but they have cut his nails and so his hands drag over old scars instead, stinging still and pulsing in tandem with the Light.

Needles prick into his back, pressing into his heart, his lungs, and his veins and he chokes as the tubes suction to him next and the burning Light presses in.

He cries again, white hot tears staining his face as he curls in on himself, willing the pain away until the needles are gone and he can feel excess Light leak out the holes they leave behind and drip over the rings of bruises that circle them. He cries as he bleeds until he faints in a pool of white and red Light.

Fifteen years. It’s been fifteen years since they first began pumping him full of Light. Fifteen years that he’s been dragged to the same bed to recover, wheezing over bandages too tight. Fifteen years that he’s groaned in agony for twenty hours as his body and the Light try to harmonize, creating more mass where there shouldn’t, and his bones creak and his head screams as he grows once more.

His sleep is restless, fevered and nightmare-fueled; he wakes only to vomit the Light that doesn’t want to stay, watching as it’s taken away, undoubtedly to be filtered and redistributed for his next session.

“Please,” he begs weakly, “please, just let me die.”

They won’t let him.

There are bracelets on his wrists and ankles when he trains. He knows why they are there, they haven’t been there long, and he distinctly remembers the day that forced them to create them. 

It wasn’t the first time they brought him to the target range but it was the first time they had let him train with other weapons that weren’t different kinds of pistols. If it weren’t for that guard standing so close to him, he thinks he would’ve been able to have ended it all right then and there. 

The very next day, they had clamped the bracelets around his wrists and shown what they would do should he tried something like that again.

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, however.

His skill is unsurpassed now, deadly and efficient whether it be with a firearm or close combat. His strength is unrivaled and agility is inhuman. His intellect able to rival that of the Traveler’s oldest Speakers and the galaxy’s best and brightest. 

For all intents and purposes, he is the model soldier. 

An image of human perfection.

Yet, in the glass cage they force him to call home, he kneels and cries. His wails of misery and pain echo around the facility and haunt those that possess a capacity of compassion; he longs for a true home yet he also longs for a morbid release. 

He doesn’t care what he has become and what he has accomplished for when he looks into the mirrors that surround his cage, he sees only a broken man beaten to the thinnest thread of hope.

When his body rejects the new Light introduced after a session, he finds peace amidst the failures of his systems. He is weary and ready to leave his broken form.

People, however, refuse to let him die.

As the last of the new Light puddles around him and the tubes detach from his back, the room is flooded with red and he flinches and curls in on himself at the shrill alarms that suddenly blare out. The doors open and suddenly there are hands on him, too many hands, and he wants to lash out, but they take the bracelets off his wrists and ankles and place clothes on his back and wrap his eyes.

“It’s okay, sweetie, we have you,” comes a soft voice, motherly and gentle despite the cacophony of noise and he is compelled to follow. 

The darkness of the blindfold is cooling and clears his mind somewhat even as he stumbles when the hands try to lift him and guide him along. Many bodies lean against him, keeping him upright and stable and they lead him out the steaming room of Light and tubes into the cold hallway. 

They continue down the familiar path until a rough voice yells at them to stop and then he’s tugged into an unfamiliar room. Gunfire causes his head to shoot up along with the ensuing screams but then a door closes behind them and the sounds are muffled save for a loud bang against the metal door.

“We’ll be safe here,” that same voice says, still soft. 

The hands settle him against a cool wall as he breathes harshly from the adrenaline that still courses through him. Delicate fingers take off the blindfold, revealing a narrow but gently lit hallway, seemingly separate from the alarm systems of the rest of the facility.

It’s hard to focus, his vision blurring in and out, and he squints at the woman that kneels in front of him. Her face is older, gently wrinkled, and there’s a particular white lock of hair hanging in front of her vibrant blue eyes, he thinks that there is something familiar about her yet he can’t quite place it.

She seems to notice this, smiling sadly as a small hand cradles his cheek and he leans into the cold feeling with a sigh.

“We’re going to get you out of here, okay?” she says, other hand moving to gently brush his own lock of white hair behind his ear. “You’re going to get better but we have to get you away from this place before you can do that.”

He only manages an incoherent mumble, face scrunching slightly when a wave of nausea rolls over him and he leans over to dry heave onto the ground. His throat is scratchy and dry by the time he’s done, barely registering the hand rubbing gentle circles into his back, and he feels like he’d be more content if he were to just lay down and sleep right there, right now.

But then, he’s back on his feet, held up by the many hands once more and they guide him down the hall and further away from the muffled alarms. 

He doesn’t know where they are or where they’re taking him - for all he knows, he could be going somewhere worse than this, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight back, can barely keep his eyes open, and all he can do is groan pathetically when those familiar pains pass through him, jostled and accentuated with the rough movement of walking and half-jogging.

He can’t tell when they get outside, barely recognizing the rain as it ghosts over him in a misty sheet. It’s dark out, in the shadow of the facility where the floodlights don’t shine down. 

Another group of people are waiting and amongst them, another person he thinks that he should know. A man this time, with a young face, perhaps the same age as himself, and with kind hazel eyes. The man and his group stand by a large metal box which rests in front of a transportation vehicle and, when they get closer, he feels drawn towards the man as though the Light in him wants to meet the man as well.

The box next to the group lets out a hiss and a whir as the top opens, revealing a ballistic gel layer in the rough shape of a person. His hazy mind just barely realizes that it’s a cryo-stasis pod. 

The hands help maneuver him inside where he sighs as his back meets the cool gel and he blearily looks up at the faces that crowd around the pod. The woman kneels near his head, accompanied by another familiar looking woman - she’s paler with narrow eyes and freckles across her face, just like him, - and they both look at him lovingly.

As the man kneels across from them, he reaches down, hand glowing a soft warm yellow and he closes his eyes when the hand meets his forehead. The warmth spreads through his body, seeming to shush his pains with gentle kisses as his Light hums happily, and for the first time in fifteen years, he is calm.

A small hand picks up his own as he begins to drift, sleepy and warm, and he feels a soft pair of lips press against the back of his hand followed by another while a Light kiss is pressed against his brow, the first woman murmuring, “Safe travels, my son.”

And with the casket sealed, the warrior sleeps.

* * *

_ In a future not so distant, the warrior will be found in a strange new world by a construct and a Crow. His true calling to the Light will be honored by the construct and the Crow will free he who is to be Lord Shaxx. _

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
